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It was my turn. I pulled up to the orange cone and handed him my passport. Beverly, my jeep, was packed to the brim. From the outside, all that could be seen were pink lids on clear packed boxes. Patterned blankets and an Osprey duffle. Pink hangers. Small wicker basket. Ocean drum. Turquoise vase adopted from Los Angeles, sitting shotgun.
“Who is Julieta?” He asked. “That’s my mother,” I replied. “Where in Mexico are you from?” “Mexico City.” “So you’re a chilanga?” “Si.” His eyebrows curved upwards. “My mother is a chilanga.”
“Where are you headed today?” He inquired. “I am moving into my home today.” “Where were you living before this?”
This continues to be a question that most often, and quite rarely, do I ever know how to answer in a way that feels both honest and true.
“I was staying at an Air BnB in Vancouver before this.” “And before that?” “I was in between homes,” I said. He squinted at me as if he were trying to put all of the pieces together in his head.
He asked me if I had 10,000 in cash or any fruits or vegetables in the car to which I replied, no.
We were almost done when he looked at me and said something like, “Okay, I’m curious, and you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but, are you a nomad? It seems like you are searching for something.” His words were messily strung together, but I understood the essence of his curiosity. This wasn’t a part of the questioning but I answered anyway.
My words stumbled out in the same awkward way. “Yeah, I haven’t settled anywhere yet. I don’t want to be in one place for long just yet.” He understood what I meant.
“You know where the first place to settle is?” He asked, placing his hand on his heart and pointing to it with the other.
I was moved by this in a way I was not anticipating to at the U.S Border.
I was quick to respond by saying, “Well, I am settled in my heart. Just not settled out in the world yet.” Or something like that. My words felt hard to get to, like the items stored on the highest shelf. Like I was reaching.
“I think you’re still searching.” He said to me.
“Really? What makes you say that?” I answered, as if I were oblivious. I don’t know why it felt important to me in that moment to be perceived as rooted.
“Well, this is just a part of it.” He gestured towards my belongings packed into my car. “Are you okay? You seem exhausted, honestly.”
“Oh, I’ve been listening to a sound bath, I’m just super relaxed.” I said, trying to convince us both.
He agreed to play along, which I was grateful for. My capacity to be seen in this moment felt very small. I was hiding something in an effort to protect it.
A man with a bag of apples appeared next to my car. It was a border patrol officer who had confiscated someone's fruit and seemed to be making his rounds. He peered into my car and said, “Wow!” in reaction to the way my whole life fit in the backseat of my car.
The man in the cubicle who I had been talking to suddenly adjusted himself back into his role as border patrol officer. “She’s good,” he said to his fellow officer. The man with the apples nodded and slowly faded away.
Then, my friend said to me, “You’re good to go.”
He chunkily strung together the only sweet Spanish words he could remember from his mother’s vocabulary passed down to him. He wished me a Feliz Año Nuevo.
Finally, with tears welling in his eyes, he said to me, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
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What a sweet story!